


Phreaks

by SleevesUpMySleeves



Series: Phreaks [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 23:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10604292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleevesUpMySleeves/pseuds/SleevesUpMySleeves
Summary: The time is 6:43am. The sun is rising over the trees, a deep azure polluting the beautiful skies. My car is pushing 100 miles per hour, my friends are screaming at me and kicking the seats, “Day Tripper” by The Beatles is blaring at full volume, and there’s a dead body in the trunk.





	

The time is 6:43am. The sun is rising over the trees, a deep azure polluting the beautiful skies. My car is pushing 100 miles per hour, my friends are screaming at me and kicking the seats, “Day Tripper” by The Beatles is blaring at full volume, and there’s a dead body in the trunk.

 

          Ron is the one kicking the seats. He’s around 13, and on that phase where you get super fucking annoying because hormones are frying your brain. If I was in his shoes, okay, yeah, I’d be doing the same thing considering he witnessed a murder. He kept kicking and ruining the passenger seat from the back, crying out, “ _FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK **SHIT**_!” whenever we told him to calm his tits.

 

          Sitting next to him was Ruth. She was my age, (17,) and from there I know the exact thoughts you’re having; “Oh, shit, there’s gonna be a love subplot.” I can tell you for a fact: no. She’s been my close friend since I was in second grade and we tried dating _once_ because everyone was pressuring us. We broke up two weeks later because it just wasn’t for us. Still damn good friends though; her hair was under product still from the dance and her punk clothing contrasted heavily with her caked on expression screaming at Ron to shut the fuck up. She was clutching a single rose that was given to her, the petals all strung out on the floor as she was picking them off all in stress. The blood on her jacket dried out as did the shell-shock and all that was left was a panic attack I haven’t seen to this degree from her before.

 

          Sitting next to me in the passenger seat was Ron’s brother Jonah. He was clutching the murder weapon, a Glock from his father’s cabinet, with a blank stare on his face. He hasn’t said a word since he pulled the trigger. He didn’t look strung out on whatever drug he was on that week like he usually does; he looked like a little boy who just saw his parents fucking. I turned to him. “Could you _lighten the fuck up, man?_ ” I exclaimed, and the only reply I heard or saw was his thousand yard stare gleaming the trees ahead. I groaned and stepped harder on the pedal.

 

          We’ve been going through this back road for the past two hours looking for a deep enough river to dump ‘it.’ You’d think it’d be easy to find a river in New York backroads to throw a body in, but they’re either entirely shallow or frozen around this time of year. It’s irritatingly hard. I hurriedly slammed in a random cassette from my deck when we left which happened to be the Past Masters of The Beatles, and it’s been playing fuzzed out singles of theirs from the 60’s on repeat non-stop. At one point Ron was crying out the lyrics, (“ _SHE LOVES YOU YEAH YEAH, YEAH, YEAH YEAH, YEAH-“_ ) with snot flying everywhere but he eventually learned to concentrate his anxiety somewhere else. Ruth turned to Jonah, her once impeccable painted nails now chipped and chewed up. “What are you gonna do about the weapon?”

 

Silence.  
“Do you really think they won’t be able to figure it out?”  
Nothing.  
“You fucking _idiot._ ”

 

I couldn’t take it anymore. She’s been demonizing the dude the whole goddamn ride. I slammed my foot down, bringing the car to a near flip on the misty morning rose. Ron’s head slammed against the back of the seat for a second, and after a quick second we made sure he didn’t get a concussion. Jonah remained still. I lurched to the back of the car.

 

“Could you _please shut the fuck up?!_ We killed a guy-“   
“He did.”  
“Hush. Nagging won’t make it worse. We’ll throw the body somewhere, wipe the prints from the house, and file a Missing Persons. They won’t suspect Jonah if we get a good alibi.”  
“On prom night? Really? What the fuck are we going to say? ‘Oh, sorry officer, Jonah was strung out on this really cool new form of acid listening to Grateful Dead all night! He’s not a murderer or anyth-‘”  
“ _SHUT. UP._ ”

 

          Ruth’s face immediately read she was hurt by me screaming this. I’ve never flipped out on her this hard before. Because admittedly, I haven’t been an accomplice to murder before. I phreak. That’s my thing. That’s as illegal as I get. And quite frankly, if someone told me when I woke up for school 24 hours ago that I’d be dumping a body instead of spending my Saturday morning watching He-Man and crying of laughter into my bowl of cereal, (because let’s face it, he looks like a Russian lesbian,) I’d roll my eyes at you and joked about being on drugs or something that imitates wit. But fuck it.

 

          I got out of the car and slammed the door behind me. My underwear keeps digging into my crotch and the hole exposing my ass in that same pair doesn’t feel particularly good against these course jeans when I press myself up to the hunk of shit car I’ve overworked. Ruth gets out after me, Ron stumbling out shortly thereafter. Jonah stays, obviously. I look around the fog of the poorly paved road, and around me. Everything seems like an intense blue, contrasting with the sky above. Ron is vomiting into a crease, and Ruth is trying to wipe off all the dirt that got over her Sex Pistols shirt. My neck strains from looking around, and it’s then I spot it.

 

          A small, out of the way pond tucked behind some thin trees and a bush. We’re far enough from the point of crime. I want to go to bed. Fuck it.

 

          “Get the body.” Ron looks up, wiping sick from his chin. “What?” “Get the body.” He’s visibly shaking as he approaches me. “Dude, in what river?” I turn to the small pond and I do my best to point. “That one.” “What?” “Exactly. Get it out.”

 

          Ruth takes a second to process my request, before slowly nodding and making her way to the trunk. When she opened it, you could smell the heat of the night’s effect on the body. We wrapped it in a spare tarp from Jonah’s dad’s garage, and some of the blood leaked into my trunk. “Ugh, shit. You’re gonna need to go to the wash after this.” I turned to Ruth. “Yeah, I know.”

 

          After exchanging glances, the three of us pick the body up from the trunk and carry it over to where the pond is. Carrying a body isn’t as easy as it seems in those exploitation films we’ve all seen on VHS. It’s heavier than it seems, smells funny, and you become paranoid halfway in blood is oozing down your arm. I lead them to the back past a bunch of prickly bushes, possible spider bites, and probably deer shit into the pond. We lay it down with a small splash, making the frogs jump out. Ron wipes his hands on his jeans to Ruth’s clear disgust. I snap a few branches and try to non-conspicuously cover the tarp which may become visible if the police search this far out. I turn to Ruth. Her eyes expressed this visible worry, afraid of something. I was too tired to notice, I’ve been up for over a day, but I could see her worry, considering if they find this they’ll be able to catch our fingerprints. I walk us back to the car regardless, open the door, and climb in.

 

          As the others got in, I turned to Jonah. He was looking down at his feet, and the Glock was gone from his hands. “When we get back, take that out of the glove compartment and throw it somewhere, alright?” He nodded, and I turn to the others.

 

          “ _Nobody speak a fucking word of this to anyone._ ”

 

          I put the keys in, and “Paperback Writer” is the song that greets me as I back up and turn home.

**Author's Note:**

> It's when you write at 12AM do you realize, "Oh shit, I'm a terrible writer when I'm strung out on caffeine." 
> 
> Especially considering this is my first Archive publication and I haven't written a single word of story for months until now.


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